


It's quiet uptown

by pearypie



Series: stars in your eyes (or: the Hamilton chronicles) [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Francis and Vincent talk about what it really means to be the Queen's Watchdog, Gen, Miscarriage, Sibling Love, Siblings, Understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7949419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Rachel’s latest miscarriage, Francis makes her brother a devastating promise—after all, someone has to upkeep the Phantomhive legacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's quiet uptown

_January 2, 1874_

“It’s alright, you know. There is no escaping it. I understand.” 

Vincent stared at her with something indescribable in his honey hued eyes, an expression of repentant apology mingled with one of assured absolutism. 

“No.” 

“Edward is a Phantomhive.” 

“I won’t burden you with my debts.” 

She stares him down, emerald eyes hard and unreadable. “Set aside your pride. Put down your sword and crown. Eloquent as you are, you cannot command life and death.” 

He smiles faintly, with a weariness that betrays his 22 years of age. He looks as if he has weathered a hundred storms seated there, in that magnificent carmine throne, dappled with shadows and misery as the fireplace burns behind him. He loves his sister, truly he does—how could he not? She was everything their mother was and when he looks at Francis, he draws strength from her shieldmaiden valor and siphons away courage and virtue. She is golden haired and a master swordswoman, wielding saber and blade as Vincent did paragraphs and vice. 

And, in many ways, he reluctantly posits, half-smile on his lips, she is right. He is proud in a multitude of ways but the Midfords—England’s knights—had always been made for sunlight. For veneration and public protection, to remind the charging armies and nearby enemies that here they stand, the calvary in arms, ready to defend their island nation wish ships, sails, and swords. Their armor glimmered silver and they rode on white steeds—they were bathed in sunlight and belonged to the tradition of chivalry and Arthurian legend. 

The Phantomhives were meant for shadows, lies, and deceit. They guarded the criminal underbelly of London and committed treasonous acts in the queen’s name because there was no other justification for it. Vincent’s soul is stained and his heart is of a difficult disposition to decipher; he so wants a family of his own but the choice of Rachel came with consequences of health and lineage. 

Her frailty was acknowledged and perhaps, subconsciously, he desired no heirs of his own. 

But her majesty did not discriminate and Francis, with her sterling honor and resilient ferocity, would not shy away from the blood the Queen’s Watchdog spilled. 

Yet he yearned for her to have normalcy—stability—though the wish was borne mainly for his benefit, out of a simple component of underlying selfishness. To look upon his gilded sister and remember that purity, ever elusive, still existed. 

With this in mind, Vincent refuses her request but Francis has come this evening to do battle. 

“You can’t possibly think of subjecting your wife to such labor and heartache. Every child she’s born has not lasted through the night.” 

“You would condemn your son to my life? In the underworld?” Vincent’s elbows rested on the armchairs of his magnificent throne and the rings glimmered in the amber firelight, denoted by the darkness of the evening sky and the intimate opulence of his fine vermillion sitting room. Francis, accustomed to the arched, airy architecture of Midford Manor with its stone and gate, could not help but feel a sliver of doubt creep down her spine though she admitted—and expressed—nothing of the sort. 

“I would have Edward do what is right and it is not just for him, Vincent. The queen would not stop all the underworld’s operations because you have failed to produce a child of your own. The danger lies in her contingency plans which, I believe, are of a darker and uglier sort than if we kept the order ourselves.” 

“Has my dear little sister become a poet?” 

“Your dear little sister can still run you clean through.” 

“And win my victories for me.” He smirks, faint and warm with the forgotten joy of youth. Ah, the penance he had to pay golden Francis when she scored the finishing point for Blue House’s Sapphire Miracle. 

Of course, he sent her sabers to Diedrich’s Bavarian smith who polished the silvery blades to perfection (though it was a terrible hassle rushing everything back to England in a matter of two days). He so longs for these familiar concepts of reassurance to surround him but Vincent has always been a man of Machiavellian means and kind smiles; his charm is his best weapon though now, it will do him little good. 

With Francis, he must be sincere—and that is the most difficult lie of all. 

“Sister dear—“ 

“Don’t.” Her inflection is harsh—almost impolite—but she is his sister and she loves him well. “I know your tricks, Vincent. I know what you’ll do.” 

“I certainly hope not. I would’ve lost my head years ago if that were true.” 

“Thank Tanaka.” 

“I always will.” 

She stares at him, lips pursed and hands folded neatly in her lap. So proper and beautiful in her dark emerald satin. “If you ever need anything. If you ever…” she trails off, looking almost unsure and suddenly, Vincent remembers six year old Francis with her skinned knees and bruised cheek, having fallen from the walnut tree one fine summer day. She’d clung onto her brother, arms around his neck, eyes dry though her fragility had been exposed and within that moment, Vincent Phantomhive had never felt more human. 

The practiced set of his mouth softens and Vincent allows a genuine expression of tender affection to appear—one usually reserved for Rachel or perhaps Tanaka—and leans over to take her by the hand. They are bare, her gloves set aside, and he can see the pale smooth skin above and feel the rough callouses decorating her fingers like rings. He reclines back, fingertips tracing her palm, but she leans into him, perched on the edge of her seat and it is in this moment he decides that, whatever the cost, he cannot bring himself to take away England’s light. Not Edward, the son of honor, chivalry, and valor. 

He raises Francis’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to her weathered palm. “Stay safe, sister dearest.” 

“Don’t presume you have any command over me.” She warns but her voice is gentle and those brilliant emerald eyes now look like spring. 

He endeavors with the last bit of truth he can sacrifice. “I command nothing but desire everything.” 

She smiles. “You are asking for death, Vincent.”

“Yes.” He muses, tapping her hand. “I suppose I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Obviously this was before Ciel's birth.) 
> 
> A/N: I really want to see a flashback involving Vincent and Francis. 
> 
> Oh and welcome to my new series! Black Butler one-shots and snapshots based on Lin-Manuel Miranda’s ‘Hamilton’ musical! 
> 
> Note: pairings will vary. Vincent, Rachel, Francis, Madam Red, and Diedrich will also feature prominently.


End file.
